Should I have Killed Him?
by Foxpilot
Summary: For Chimerical Knave's 'Open' Forum contest. When demons of the past return to haunt someone like Kursed, what kinds of reactions will the stony bounty hunter feel?


**This story is for Chimerical Knave's 'Open' Forum contest. Seems I'll be slipping this in right under the radar.**

**No time to hesitate, then. Let it…Begin!**

SFSFSFSFSFSFSFSFSFSF

Should I have killed him?

We crossed paths on the dusty plains of Kew. Each of us was hunting a different target, but the two bounties turned out to be partners. Standing off with our objectives in front of their hideaway, we exchanged a few pleasantries before making a plan.

"Kursed," I said, introducing myself.

"Fox," he reciprocated.

The name brought on memories of a grand age lost to time, the name "Krystal" that I'd discarded years ago. I pushed those thoughts aside in favor of the moment. Checking the energy levels of my weapon, I growled out a rough plan. He agreed quickly, knowing that time is always of the essence. On my count, we acted.

I shot out the window, allowing the tan vulpine to lob a smoke grenade into the ramshackle hut. As blinding black vapor filled the hideout, our two targets—small-time crooks cited for menial crimes—burst out, coughing and swearing but with blasters drawn. He downed the first one; I, the second. No kill shots, as the perps were wanted alive. Still, they wouldn't be moving any time soon.

We approached the bounties with trepidation, in case either was feigning unconsciousness. The pair of us, two experienced mercenaries, made quite a team. Sure, this was one job with easy targets, but I felt a connected experience that brought up memories long discarded and buried.

My lost planet.

My ancestral staff.

The crystal prison. (Oh, how many jokes they told about that!)

The ancient statue.

The dreadful aparoids.

The team of friends. (Since when did I have those?)

The wretched Anglars.

The multiple betrayals.

My two lovers. (Such a loathsome pair!)

The memories made me angry. For the first time in nigh upon a decade, I felt spite. Hatred filled my heart; rage bubbled under my fur. This man—this fox—he reminded me of the worst, yet best times of my life and I didn't know why. I'd met hundreds of tawny foxes, and thousands of fellow creatures by the name of "Fox". And yet this one was different. He had experiences and connections that made him so similar to me.

I abhorred him for that. So, I shot him.

I left him there. I left him writing in pain, and dragged both his and my targets towards my waiting starship. Fellow mercenaries are dangerous competition. They're even worse when they evoke emotional reactions.

Still, I'm not pitiless. He'd live…assuming he could reach help before he starves.

Still, walking away, I couldn't help but wonder: Should I have killed him?

And so, time passed. After one kills many people, a survivor is not troubling. I returned to my job as a bounty hunter. Kill a target, claim a prize. Spend the money on anything, search for more jobs. Many say such an existence is empty. I agree, but people with no past or future can only live for the empty moment.

So we continue, if only for the hope of an opportunity and due to the habit of survival.

Survival is such a wondrous motivator. No matter what one forgets, there is always the possibility of tomorrow.

Of course, possibility swings many ways.

Some months after the meeting on Kew, I was spending the night holed up in a bar and motel on the southern hemisphere of Eladard. I was reviewing the list of possible jobs when the panther swaggered in.

Warning bells rang inside my head. This man, a midnight wildcat with the gaudiest armor I had seen and will ever see, reeked of macho, womanizing desires. I felt as though I'd seen him before, but I couldn't place him. Then the memories hit me again.

The Sargasso space station.

The endangered Orbital Gate.

The aparoid homeworld. (Now _that _was a memory to bury.)

Getting booted from the "good" team.

Joining the Cornerian military.

The struggle of the Anglar War. (A most lopsided fight; they didn't stand a chance.)

The victory on Venom.

The scorn of those I'd saved.

How he didn't comfort me. (He cared only for his own accolades.)

When I looked up from my unwanted flashback, he was grinning at me. Sliding into an empty seat next to me, he introduced himself. "I am Panther Caroso. And you must be the dark side of heaven."

"I'm Kursed," I growled back. "And you don't want to sit there." I discreetly clicked my heels together, exposing the blades hidden in my boots' toes.

"Feisty," he crooned. "How about—"

"Leave," I interrupted coldly. I knew what he wanted and I wasn't providing.

"There's no need to be rude," Panther retorted suavely.

That's when I kicked him under his knee. He fell to the ground hissing and grabbing at the hole under his leg. I retracted my blades and muttered, "You're right, how uncivil of me."

I left him there, yelping in pain. He'd survive…if any of the drunken boors in the tavern took pity on him.

I locked the door to my room and flopped down on the ratty bed. Once again, the question turned over in my mind: Should I have killed him?

And so, again, time passed. The bounties of the galaxy don't collect themselves. This makes for good business; and for a time, I was successful. I even managed to start a bank account in the rising Venom Empire. The chimp in charge could be a problem one day. Until then, though, the planet's lack of enforcement makes for some nice cash.

With the planet generally toxin-free—probably my last proud accomplishment—the barren home of the Lylat System's lizards became a source of commerce. After years of war, many people were quite glad that the civil disputes of the past were finally where they belonged: In the government. In the robust, rowdy towns, anyone with a large enough aura of confidence could walk free and proud. A new start for those banned or shunned by Corneria; naturally, I found myself a persistent little base there and continued my work. This turned out to be a miscalculation.

A bounty hunter should always remain on the move, lest the predator become prey. Having cursed the galaxy with my presence for several years, my fame and infamy grew to greater levels, meaning that movement was ever more necessary.

And so, I found myself sitting at the local coffeehouse, living a stable afternoon with something just under enjoyment. Of course, when one's life is so harsh that you'd rather forget most of it, such a peace can never last.

In one door burst the tan fox from Kew. This time, he had a group of cronies with him. I immediately tensed, knowing they were searching for me. The green and pink toads would be simple enough, and the vulpine seemed to be limping. Only the blue bird of happiness looked like an actual threat. Drawing my sidearm, I prepared to drop him from a distance. I figured blandly that I'd had enough stability for a while.

Then the door on the other side of the café chimed. In limped the panther from Eledard, followed by an arrogant wolf and a sneering reptile. All three had their weapons drawn, and they took a somewhat less subtle approach at finding me.

It appeared that the two groups were rival gangs. As they argued over me—apparently I was a simple trophy to them—I paid my tab and slipped behind the counter. Before too long, I was forgotten over older arguments. The fox's crew—I guess you could call them the "good guys"—drew their own weapons and boasted generic threats.

By that point, the diners and staff had fled. I decided to do the same before guns started firing. I scurried my way out through the kitchen before any of of my trackers could remember their original quarrel or quarry.

By the time I had closed the back door several dozen laser bolts had pierced the sides of the building. I did not run; quick action would have looked suspicious to potential witnesses. Instead, I blended with the crowd on the opposite side of the street. Summoning my most curious demeanor, I asked a passerby, "Know what's happening in there?"

"Nope," she responded. "I think the police are on their way, though."

In the fledgling Venom Empire, there were few law enforcement officers. I would have time enough to disappear before questioning. The two gangs would, too, though the good guys would probably stick around and file some sort of report. That meant there could be between one and three enemies on my tail.

I proved my own theory correct two blocks later. I noticed the lizard following me. He seemed rather sadistic, but also quite skilled. I dashed down a side alley, baiting the freak away from the public. No sense in hurting the undeserving.

I clicked my heels and unsheathed my boot blades as I ducked behind an extremely convenient dumpster. As the reptile padded closer, extra slow for emphasis, I remembered seeing his face on a "Wanted" poster several years back. He was one of the "bad guys." I could probably still get a decent reward for my poor assailant.

He peeked around the corner; I lashed out with a rolling kick. In turn, he struck at me as he dodged. We were both clearly trained killers; neither of us escaped uninjured, but neither would was harmful. By silent consent, we tossed our guns aside and engaged in close-quarters combat.

The chameleon was nearly as swift and flexible as I was, and I was close to him in strength. Through I'd left my knives behind at my base, I was forced to use my boot blades. I drew upon years of training that were more experience than memories to fight this battle. One shot lacerated my shin; another slice narrowly missed my stomach.

We were evenly matched. I'd just punctured his inner thigh when a tone sounded from his pocket. We paused to catch our breaths as he answered the call on his communicator. After a curt discussion, he turned away and hissed that he would return.

I planted a heavy kick under his tail.

I'm not merciless. I made sure to finish him off immediately. I am, however, not fond of feeling followed. I decided to leave him there for the two gangs to find as a warning: I would not be trifled with.

Back at base, as I tended to my wounds and prepared to leave, I wondered to myself once again: Should I have killed him?

In the two months since that day on Venom, I have flown through seven interstellar gates, each leading away from the Lylat System and its surrounding stars. The question haunted me every waking moment, even as my wounds healed and the memories faded as I repressed them.

Only now, traveling towards Hexadewel VI, have I just come up with the answer. Or rather, answers, as I've asked that three times now.

I should not have killed the tan fox. He was a man working to live, as I have. He had others who would be sad at his departure, and his loyalty to his cause and allies was unshakable.

I should not have killed the womanizing panther. In their own ways, he and the tan fox were similar. The bag lug of a cat just decided a different path for his life.

As such, I'm glad I didn't kill them. I also have no doubt that they lived to see another day, and are perhaps still looking for me.

The reptile, though, I should have killed. Somebody with enough litheness and prowess to match me is a threat—and someone stupid enough to turn his back on a hostile enemy is too stupid to live. He would have killed me if he hadn't turned away, and he should have killed me with a laser to the back. No society should endure someone who enjoys killing that much.

I do not have hope for my future. I simply know now that I can never stop. My life is not about "good guys" or "bad guys" or peace. It is not about anything. I stand for continued survival and nothing more. Those who die before me are my enemies and those who stay alive are not. I am simply a bounty hunter.

I am simply a curse.

SFSFSFSFSFSFSFSFSFSF

**Frankly, I don't like Kursed very much. She is everything Krystal isn't, and the circumstances of her "creation" are ridiculous. She isn't much of an antithesis to a character more divisive than Slippy. (For those who don't know, Slip is quite popular in Japan, kinda like Tingle from the Zelda series.) I always feel like Krystal just buried her heart and gave up. That's no way to live.**

**So why write about her then? First off, why not? She's another of Star Fox's woefully underexplored characters, and even if I didn't flesh her out much myself, it was interesting to try and balance the hard Kursed exterior with Krystal's unyielding compassion. Second, it's a bit of a look at myself. That's all I'll say about that.**

**Someone has pointed out that this is probably the angstiest piece I've ever written. I was also recently informed that my writing style hasn't evolved enough. For those who know me, I ask: How does angst work for my writing, and does it feel like a step towards evolution? For those who don't know me: This is what it is.**

**Ciao chow, all!**


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